quivering wings
by Misila
Summary: She's not there. She's nowhere.


_**quivering wings**_

.

Twilight invades the room, agonising sunlight reaching every corner and curling in rivulets over the pristine white walls. It shines through the newly replaced bag full of translucent liquid, projects clear flowers on snowy sheets; it even brushes bruised skin, a feeble attempt to warm up pale, limp forearms.

The door creaks open as leather boots step soundlessly inside the room, followed by the irregular flight of a shy butterfly; her parasol discharged against a bare patch of a wall, the bleeding twilight blends in with the shades of pink of a kimono as the intruder sits on a chair between the bed and the window. Exhausted eyelids droop closed to the intermittent beeping coming from one of the machines on her right, next to the bed.

It's not as comforting as it should be. The thread Chuuya's life hangs from is still too thin, too weak to trust it not to snap at any moment. The most primitive, indomitable side of his ability has never been something pleasant to look at; but as her mind replays without permission, again, the last time Chuuya lost himself to the power that is too great to be held by one single person, a shiver runs down her back, refinement drowned in a suffocating fear until her eyes open and her gaze lands on the slight movement of Chuuya's chest.

Barely up, barely down, as feeble as a timid heartbeat; but the faint hiss coursing through his throat with every intake of air, the unsteady rhythm of the beeps, are stubborn, not defeated.

Kouyou's eyes wander to Chuuya's hand when its fingers curl slightly, scaring the butterfly off his bruised knuckles; her ears pick up the slightest irregularity in his shallow breathing.

The knowledge of what comes next reaches her with a resignation of sorts as she looks at his lips and waits for them to start moving. At first no sound, other than that eerie whistle as air enters his lungs, comes between them, but as long eyelashes tremble against ashen cheeks a single word slides out several times, dressed in a throaty voice.

"It's alright," Kouyou hears herself say; blurry blue eyes drift towards her, too delirious to recognise her face. "You need to rest." Her voice doesn't waver, steeled by years of experience; yet it's soft, for the last thing she wishes is for Chuuya to think there is something remotely close to a reproach in her words.

"But Ak––… Akiko…" he tries to argue, voice lost as his broken body drags him back to unconsciousness.

Kouyou laces her fingers on her lap to keep them from trembling. Out of anger, concern, helplessness– she listens as Chuuya's heartbeat slows down, tries to ignore her own. Because she did all in her power to avoid a situation like this, warned him countless times; but her efforts proved to be useless the second Chuuya fell in love with that woman.

Because Yosano Akiko could get Chuuya back on his feet in the blink of an eye, but that is no longer possible. And judging by his insistence in calling her name, deep down –so deep he's _drowning_ – Chuuya probably knows.

The butterfly flutters back to his limp hand, and stays there.

.

As he uncrosses his long legs to shake the numbness off them, he nearly feels as if he had never made his way out of the Mafia, like that first night he found himself sitting by Chuuya's bed, waiting for him to wake up to ask what the _hell_ had possessed him to use his ability like that; back then Dazai was curious, even excited about that self-destructing facet of a boy he disliked on instinct.

Now it's barely midday, _Corruption_ is but a minor inconvenience for Dazai –he's not the one who might die, unfortunately–, and rather than concern it's Kouyou's text what brings him to the hospital, despite there are dozens of tasks he would rather do instead, including playing with a dog and writing the reports Kunikida is constantly nagging him about. She doesn't want Chuuya to be alone and the Port Mafia is busy cleaning the mess he left in his trance, after all.

Chuuya isn't asleep –or, at least, his eyes aren't closed–, but he doesn't look completely awake either; he hasn't noticed Dazai's presence yet, too busy staring at the white ceiling and frowning at times as his lips move forming soundless words.

It's better like this, and despite being happy for not having to stand him should be the most natural reaction –the one Dazai hoped for when he has slid the door open and failed to hear any insult directed at him–, it's relief and apprehension what clings to his heart. Relief because an apathetic Chuuya is better than what Kouyou has warned him about, and apprehension because ––

Well, because Chuuya's listlessness won't last forever.

Whether it's a side effect of the painkillers coursing through his veins or simply psychological shock, Chuuya will most likely snap out of his reverie soon. Dazai really hopes he doesn't until after Kouyou is back.

Because when he does, he will ask.

And Dazai has no idea what he will answer.

It feels like a bad joke– how after years of being forced to stick together due to pure strategy, of thousands of failures at finding something, anything to make the time they had to spend around each other somewhat bearable; after all this time, the one thing that stirs some empathy for Chuuya within his heart–– is guilt.

Over not arriving sooner, over not stopping Chuuya until the only damage yet to be done was consuming his own life– but also because Dazai knows the pain of losing someone due to stupidity, of not being able to do a thing about it. Because when the numbness fogging Chuuya's senses vanishes he will walk through hell barefoot, and that…

That is something Dazai can relate to.

He jolts upright when his phone vibrates in his pocket, thankful for the excuse to stop his mind from wandering into the past even before he reads the few words written in it: Kouyou is already heading back to the hospital. Although Dazai is grateful and has his own duties to fulfil –catching up with piled up paperwork, doing the laundry, making sure Kunikida doesn't forget about eating or sleeping _again_ –, he can't help but wonder whether she should get some rest. Sleep deprivation is something Kouyou looks familiar with, but since Chuuya arrived at the hospital, so badly injured it's almost a miracle he survived, she seems to have aged ten years.

A squeaking noise makes Dazai raise his head from the phone; at first his gaze drifts to the equipment, wondering if that off-tune beep is normal, if some machine broke or if he should call someone to check on Chuuya. But the following tones don't sound strange, if only slightly faster, irregular; it's not until the noise echoes again in the room that Dazai finally locates its source.

His gaze falls on Chuuya's face reluctantly, every inch of him begging to look away from the blue eyes locked with his, still bleary with drugs and pain but now definitely awake.

Chuuya attempts to speak a third time; now a breathy hiss falls from his lips, small creases around his eyes betraying a disgust that is as instinctive as it is mutual when he recognises Dazai.

"Why…" he eventually manages, mouth open after his voice dies out.

"Big sis asked me to," Dazai explains, perhaps hastier than usual, relieved because this is familiar and easy to deal with.

Now should come the part where he makes fun of Chuuya, because Chuuya's already short fuse is even shorter after _Corruption_ ; but, while it's the most entertaining pastime he can think of, Dazai doesn't have the heart to test his former partner's patience at the moment.

Chuuya shakes his head almost imperceptibly, though; he presses his lips together, fingers curling into fists that grab the blanket beneath them as his forehead creases in concentration.

"Why," he repeats, stops to take air in, "isn't she… Where is she?"

The question is not about Kouyou.

Dazai looks aside, the only way out he can think of. His gaze lands on the window, on a butterfly resting on the other side of the glass.

Because Chuuya's voice isn't heavy with worry or curiousity. No; the words that stumble out of his mouth, creaking like an old door, are shaped like a plea– filled to the brim with despair, choked on a panic Dazai hasn't heard since they were fourteen.

Because it's not truth what Chuuya's eyes beg for.

It's the comfort of a lie.

When Dazai makes up his mind and looks at him again, Chuuya's gaze is still stubbornly focused on him, eyes trying to blink exhaustion away. His lips part, only a long exhale coming between them.

And Dazai realises Chuuya, prostrated in that bed, just barely out of Death's grip and hardly able to speak, let alone move, is far ahead of him in terms of resolve.

He _can't_.

He can't tell Chuuya– it's by far the cruellest joke to make now, one Dazai would have never thought of by himself before everything started to crumble around him, and he is unable to carry it out.

Dazai stands up, shoves his phone back in the pocket of his trench coat and brushes an old matchbox, trying not to pay attention to Chuuya's intrigued gaze following his every movement. Utter confusion fills blue when Dazai's free hand reaches for Chuuya's shoulder, fingers pressing slightly.

"Dazai, wh––"

"I'm sorry, Chuuya."

And perhaps for the first time since they met, hopefully the last one, there is no bite behind those words, nothing hidden beneath a sincere sorrow.

Dazai tears his gaze off Chuuya when his eyes widen, tilts his head at the accelerating heartbeat betrayed by the machine as broken pieces of questions fall from his former partner's lips, mixed with distressed, incoherent sounds and pained moans when he tries to move and runs out of air, breathing growing quicker and shallower.

The hand leaves Chuuya's shoulder, presses the call button before Dazai can register what he's doing. He doesn't look at Chuuya again, doesn't turn around as he walks towards the door, not even when the calls behind him break into increasingly anxious pleas.

Once in the hallway, he steps aside as a couple of nurses rush into the room, Chuuya's breathless whimpers filtering through the door.

"I'm sorry," Dazai repeats, quieter now.

He hates how he means it.

.

Kyouka finds him sitting on a bench, gaze lost somewhere among a flower bed.

She hesitates, unsure of what the best course of action is: nobody has noticed her gaze, not even himself; but Atsushi will most likely finish talking to the client soon. After a few seconds, though, she stops denying her legs the right to carry her towards the bench, takes a bit of her crepe before her steps come to a halt beside the man.

"Can I sit here?"

Chuuya flinches, eyes quickly scanning her; Kyouka then realises he was following a butterfly's movements from flower to flower.

"Sure."

As she drops herself next to Chuuya, Kyouka can't bring herself to say he's better. Sure, it's been nearly a month since that disastrous night and he is no longer on the verge of dying; but he looks visibly less alert and a lot more tired than before he did _that_.

Kyouka still remembers one night Chuuya stayed at Kouyou's house, when he found her curled up under the stairs, hidden from the recurring nightmare of _Demon Snow_ slicing her parents; instead of telling her to go back to bed like Kouyou would have done, Chuuya only sat next to her, kept quiet until she could no longer hold her thoughts inside. Back then, Chuuya didn't look impressed in the very least by her words; he only snickered, told her about the ability of destroying the whole city without being able to do a thing to stop it, about a boy that had once killed fifty nine people without realising it.

Kyouka has never given it much thought. Chuuya's point –it doesn't matter she is a murderer because he is too– sounded stupid to her ears, and she couldn't quite believe there was an ability that could kill its owner.

When she saw it with her own eyes, though, she remembered that conversation; with every sphere of darkness that ate reality away the echo of Chuuya's words resounded in her head, the pieces finally clicking together: Chuuya had never tried to make her feel better about killing her parents, but to let her know she wasn't the only one weighed down by that kind of regret.

"You look… more recovered." She doesn't even know what to say, now. Only that what drew her towards Chuuya was understanding; being a puppet is something she doesn't wish to anyone.

Chuuya snorts, rolling his eyes. "I guess. At least now I'm not locked up in the hospital."

"I'm glad," Kyouka replies, and she means it. There are very few people she truly got to like during the three years she spent under Kouyou's wing and Chuuya is one of them.

"Thank you." Chuuya's gaze drifts towards the flowers again. "Hey, Kyouka," he mutters, "how is the Agency doing?"

Kyouka's back tenses.

She thinks about Atsushi's blank stare when he lowers his guard.

She thinks about Kunikida's lack of sleep even though he has somehow become even more productive lately.

She thinks about Dazai's oddly caring side when he practically kicks his partner home to force him to rest.

She thinks about Tanizaki's heartbroken expression whenever he looks at the arm he still has immobilised in a sling.

She thinks about Ranpo's lifeless, unforgiving gaze as he fiddles with his marbles.

She thinks about Kenji, about the pot he left on the still empty desk and waters every day.

She thinks about how she has only seen Fukuzawa twice in nearly a month.

She thinks about the whispers Naomi and Haruno don't share anymore, about the artificial silence settled over them, about the dusty infirmary nobody has set foot in since its legitimate owner closed it one last time before heading towards the battlefield.

And then she thinks about how Chuuya and Yosano arrived, fearless and holding hands until they noticed her curious stare, identical grins lighting up their faces; and it hurts.

"We're getting by." Kyouka looks at her crepe; she's not hungry anymore. "Better don't get close, though."

Next to her, Chuuya shifts his weight a bit. "I know."

He's still looking at the butterfly, the black and orange wings drifting from flower to flower.

"If you want to visit her, she's––"

"She's not there," Chuuya interrupts, voice sharp. Kyouka glances at his tense profile, his pressed lips; she bites her lower lip at his pale face.

"Still," she insists, voice tiny. Against all odds, she doesn't fear Chuuya; a part of her, though, fears _for_ Chuuya, because he looks more lost than she has ever seen him.

Chuuya lowers his gaze, posture slouching under the tons of feelings swirling within his eyes. "…Sorry."

Kyouka shrugs.

Spotting Atsushi comes as a relief; she jolts up like a spring, not really wanting to be seen with a Mafia Executive.

"Even if she's not there, it'll be good for you," comes her farewell before she runs towards her friend, not looking back.

.

Chuuya tries to follow Kyouka's advice. Even though he will never stop resenting her betrayal, he got too used to her during the time she stayed with Kouyou; and he knows there is rarely any ill intention behind her words. She dislikes pretending, which he likes about her.

But he can't bring himself to go to the graveyard and leave flowers for an empty gravestone, and talk to it and beg for a non-existent forgiveness.

He stands at the gate of the cemetery, gardenias and purple hyacinths safely held in his arms, feels sick at the prospect of playing along that farce.

Because she's not there.

She's nowhere.

Chuuya doesn't pay attention to where his feet lead him, too busy watching a butterfly that flaps its wings from flower to flower, seemingly not getting tired of the bouquet. It ends up on a white gardenia, stays still as if resting under Chuuya's listless gaze until he blinks up from the plants and looks around in mild curiosity– because everything seems duller now, like the faded colours in old movies.

Which is why the urge to turn around and run as far as he can leaves him shaking, legs unsteady as he struggles to keep standing; and he wants to scream because _nothing_ has struck him this hard since he awoke to Dazai's sorrowful gaze.

There is practically nothing left standing– Chuuya recalls there were some old buildings, a rather small parking; all is gone, pieces of twisted metal still writhing on the ground, at the bottom of so many craters it _is_ a miracle he actually survived causing this. He can't remember everything; fear of hurting the wrong people back then, and now guilt and terror of learning how it happened block his memory and he hates himself for wishing everything remains like this, because she would surely remember all of it, if she could.

But she can't, because she is not there. She is nowhere.

She no longer _is_.

And Chuuya would rather remember her smile, her voice, the unbelievably cold hands she would slip beneath his shirt at night just to annoy him. The melody of her laughter against his skin, the bliss in her sleepy expression when they danced at three in the morning. It hurts, it would kill him if it could; but Chuuya is afraid of losing whatever is left of his sanity if he remembers the terror she looked at him with that night, right before he killed her with his own hands.

Chuuya's steps are unsteady as he walks down the deepest crater, where plants start growing again. He collapses on his knees upon reaching the bottom; he tells himself he's just tired, that he doesn't even know if it was _here_ , but deep down he knows his exhaustion isn't physical, the way he _knew_ the moment he felt himself dying and there was no healing, only Kouyou's concern by his side.

He places the flowers on the ground, in front of him.

Startled, the butterfly takes off the bouquet, dances around his gloved hand. It barely brushes the tip of his nose before flying up, up towards the sky.

But Chuuya can't raise his head to watch it leave.

He looks at the flowers, bites his lower lip before giving up and hiding his face behind his palms in shame and sorrow.

This way, if he cries, nobody has to know.

* * *

[Gardenias mean "secret love". Purple hyacinths mean "please forgive me".]

I wrote this a while ago because I wanted to explore the idea. It doesn't necessary have to be the end of my other chuuaki fics, though. I was just curious.

You can kill me via review.


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